Reinhart, Rogoff... and Herndon: The student who caught out the profs

19 April 2013 Last updated at 19:53 ET

By Ruth Alexander BBC News
 

This week, economists have been astonished to find that a famous academic paper often used to make the case for austerity cuts contains major errors. Another surprise is that the mistakes, by two eminent Harvard professors, were spotted by a student doing his homework.

It's 4 January 2010, the Marriott Hotel in Atlanta. At the annual meeting of the American Economic Association, Professor Carmen Reinhart and the former chief economist of the International Monetary Fund, Ken Rogoff, are presenting a research paper called Growth in a Time of Debt.

At a time of economic crisis, their finding resonates - economic growth slows dramatically when the size of a country's debt rises above 90% of Gross Domestic Product, the overall size of the economy.

Word about this paper spread. Policymakers wanted to know more.

And so did student Thomas Herndon. His professors at the University of Massachusetts Amherst had set his graduate class an assignment - pick an economics paper and see if you can replicate the results. It's a good exercise for aspiring researchers.

Thomas chose Growth in a Time of Debt. It was getting a lot of attention, but intuitively, he says, he was dubious about its findings.

Some key figures tackling the global recession found this paper a useful addition to the debate at the heart of which is this key question: is it best to let debt increase in the hope of stimulating economic growth to get out of the slump, or is it better to cut spending and raise taxes aggressively to get public debt under control?
EU commissioner Olli Rehn and influential US Republican politician Paul Ryan have both quoted a 90% debt-to-GDP limit to support their austerity strategies.

But while US politicians were arguing over whether to inject more stimulus into the economy, the euro was creaking under the strain of forced austerity, and a new coalition government in the UK was promising to raise taxes and cut spending to get the economy under control - Thomas Herndon's homework assignment wasn't going well.

No matter how he tried, he just couldn't replicate Reinhart and Rogoff's results.

Reinhart and Rogoff reply...

We are grateful to Herndon et al. for the careful attention to our original Growth in a Time of Debt AER paper and for pointing out an important correction to Figure 2 of that paper. It is sobering that such an error slipped into one of our papers despite our best efforts to be consistently careful. We will redouble our efforts to avoid such errors in the future. We do not, however, believe this regrettable slip affects in any significant way the central message of the paper or that in our subsequent work.

"My heart sank," he says. "I thought I had likely made a gross error. Because I'm a student the odds were I'd made the mistake, not the well-known Harvard professors."

His professors were also sure he must be doing something wrong.

"I remember I had a meeting with my professor, Michael Ash, where he basically said, 'Come on, Tom, this isn't too hard - you just gotta go sort this out.'"

So Herndon checked his work, and checked again.

By the end of the semester, when he still hadn't cracked the puzzle, his supervisors realised something was up.

"We had this puzzle that we were unable to replicate the results that Reinhart-Rogoff published," Prof Ash, says. "And that really got under our skin. That was really a mystery for us."

So Ash and his colleague Prof Robert Pollin encouraged Herndon to continue the project and to write to the Harvard professors. After some correspondence, Reinhart and Rogoff provided Thomas with the actual working spreadsheet they'd used to obtain their results.

"Everyone says seeing is believing, but I almost didn't believe my eyes," he says.

Thomas called his girlfriend over to check his eyes weren't deceiving him.

“Start Quote

New Zealand's single year, 1951, at -8% growth is held up with the same weight as Britain's nearly 20 years in the high public debt category at 2.5% growth”

Prof Michael Ash

But no, he was correct - he'd spotted a basic error in the spreadsheet. The Harvard professors had accidentally only included 15 of the 20 countries under analysis in their key calculation (of average GDP growth in countries with high public debt).

Australia, Austria, Belgium, Canada and Denmark were missing.

Oops.

Herndon and his professors found other issues with Growth in a Time of Debt, which had an even bigger impact on the famous result. The first was the fact that for some countries, some data was missing altogether.
Reinhart and Rogoff say that they were assembling the data series bit by bit, and at the time they presented the paper for the American Economic Association conference, good quality data on post-war Canada, Australia and New Zealand simply weren't available. Nevertheless, the omission made a substantial difference.

Thomas and his supervisors also didn't like the way that Reinhart and Rogoff averaged their data. They say one bad year for a small country like New Zealand, was blown out of proportion because it was given the same weight as, for example, the UK's nearly 20 years with high public debt.

"New Zealand's single year, 1951, at -8% growth is held up with the same weight as Britain's nearly 20 years in the high public debt category at 2.5% growth," Michael Ash says. 

"I think that's a mistaken way to examine these data."

There's no black and white here, because there are also downsides to the obvious alternatives. But still, it's controversial and it, too, made a big difference.

All these results were published by Thomas Herndon and his professors on 15 April, as a draft working paper. They find that high levels of debt are still correlated with lower growth - but the most spectacular results from the Reinhart and Rogoff paper disappear. High debt is correlated with somewhat lower growth, but the relationship is much gentler and there are lots of exceptions to the rule.

 

Greece is an example of a country with high debt that has suffered a slump

 

Reinhart and Rogoff weren't available to be interviewed, but they did provide the BBC with a statement.
In it, they said: "We are grateful to Herndon et al. for the careful attention to our original Growth in a Time of Debt AER paper and for pointing out an important correction to Figure 2 of that paper. It is sobering that such an error slipped into one of our papers despite our best efforts to be consistently careful. We will redouble our efforts to avoid such errors in the future. We do not, however, believe this regrettable slip affects in any significant way the central message of the paper or that in our subsequent work."

Accidents do happen, and science progresses through the identification of previous mistakes. But was this a particularly expensive mistake?

"I don't think jobs were destroyed because of this but it provides an intellectual rationalisation for things that affect how people think about the world," says Daniel Hamermesh, professor of economics at Royal Holloway, University of London.

"And how people think about the world, especially politicians, eventually affects how the world works."
Discovering a spreadsheet error was never going to end the debate over austerity - and nor should it, according to Megan McArdle, special correspondent for Newsweek and The Daily Beast.

"There is other research showing that you can have these slowdowns when you get to high levels of debt," she says. "We have a very vivid [example] in Greece."

Thomas Herndon 's view is that austerity policies are counter-productive. But right now he's delighted that the first academic paper he's ever published has made such a splash.

"I feel really honoured to have made a contribution to the policy discussion," he says.

 See BBC News Magazine

Versatile Telugu writer Ravuri gets Jnanpith award

By Express News Service - HYDERABAD | 18th April 2013 11:12 AM

    Ravuri Bharadwaja

Telugu writer Dr Ravuri Bharadwaja was on Wednesday selected for the prestigious Jnanpith award for the year 2012. Bharadwaja, 86, who has to his credit more than 37 volumes of short stories and 17 novels among other works, was chosen for the award by a selection board chaired by noted poet Sitakant Mahapatra.

“I’m feeling like having been blessed with a healthy son after remaining childless for a decade. I am at a loss for words,” said Bharadwaja after coming to know of his selection for the Jnanpith Award.

Bharadwaja, who had humble beginnings, recalled his struggles in life. “I struggled for food and clothing. I never asked for awards. Of course, I am happy for getting this award.”

The news of the honour for Bharadwaja brought joy to lovers of Telugu literature as the prestigious award came to a Telugu writer after a gap of 25 years.

Viswanatha Satyanarayana, popularly known as ‘Kavi Samrat’, was the first Telugu litterateur to get the Award in 1970. Poet Dr C Narayana Reddy bagged the award in 1988.

The books of Bharadwaja, who had education till Class VIII only, had been prescribed as textbooks in universities and even been the basis of many research works.

“Bharadwaja passed through all sorts of vicissitudes of life but continued his service to Telugu literature with perseverance. He is a poet, a playwright, a novelist of distinction and a popular science writer,” a statement from the Jnanpith Award committee said.

Besides short stories and novels, he has also written six short novels for children, five compilations of short stories for children, three collections of essays and biographies and eight plays.

His notable works include Kadambari, Pakudurallu, Jeevana Samaram, Inupu Tera Venuka and Koumudi and have been translated into English and various Indian languages.

“Bharadwaja’s greatest attribute is his flair for story-telling. His works proved that a writer has a social awareness and his work a human purpose,” the statement said.

Excerpted from The New Indian Express

Tuesday 9 April 2013 20.22 BST

 

Russell Brand on Margaret Thatcher: 'I always felt sorry for her children'

The actor and comedian recalls a bizarre recent encounter with the Iron Lady, and how it prompted him to think about growing up under the most unlikely matriarch-figure imaginable

Margaret Thatcher, the year she became leader of the Conservatives, and the year Russell Brand was born. Photograph: Keystone France

Russell Brand

One Sunday recently while staying in London, I took a stroll in the gardens of Temple, the insular clod of quads and offices between the Strand and the Embankment. It's kind of a luxury rent-controlled ghetto for lawyers and barristers, and there is a beautiful tailors, a fine chapel, established by the Knights Templar (from which the compound takes its name), a twee cottage designed by Sir Christopher Wren and a rose garden; which I never promised you.

My mate John and I were wandering there together, he expertly proselytising on the architecture and the history of the place, me pretending to be Rumpole of the Bailey (quietly in my mind), when we spied in the distant garden a hunched and frail figure, in a raincoat, scarf about her head, watering the roses under the breezy supervision of a masticating copper. "What's going on there, mate?" John asked a nearby chippy loading his white van. "Maggie Thatcher," he said. "Comes here every week to water them flowers." The three of us watched as the gentle horticultural ritual was feebly enacted, then regarded the Iron Lady being helped into the back of a car and trundling off. In this moment she inspired only curiosity, a pale phantom, dumbly filling her day. None present eyed her meanly or spoke with vitriol and it wasn't until an hour later that I dreamt up an Ealing comedy-style caper in which two inept crooks kidnap Thatcher from the garden but are unable to cope with the demands of dealing with her, and finally give her back. This reverie only occurred when the car was out of view. In her diminished presence I stared like an amateur astronomer unable to describe my awe at this distant phenomenon.

When I was a kid, Thatcher was the headmistress of our country. Her voice, a bellicose yawn, somehow both boring and boring – I could ignore the content but the intent drilled its way in. She became leader of the Conservatives the year I was born and prime minister when I was four. She remained in power till I was 15. I am, it's safe to say, one of Thatcher's children. How then do I feel on the day of this matriarchal mourning?
I grew up in Essex with a single mum and a go-getter Dagenham dad. I don't know if they ever voted for her, I don't know if they liked her. My dad, I suspect, did. He had enough Del Boy about him to admire her coiffured virility – but in a way Thatcher was so omnipotent; so omnipresent, so omni-everything that all opinion was redundant.

As I scan the statements of my memory bank for early deposits (it'd be a kid's memory bank account at a neurological NatWest where you're encouraged to become a greedy little capitalist with an escalating family of porcelain pigs), I see her in her hairy helmet, condescending on Nationwide, eviscerating eunuch MPs and baffled BBC fuddy duddies with her General Zodd stare and coldly condemning the IRA. And the miners. And the single mums. The dockers. The poll-tax rioters. The Brixton rioters, the Argentinians, teachers; everyone actually.

Margaret Thatcher visiting British troops on the Falkland Islands in 1983: the war was a turning point in her premiership. Photograph: taken from picture library

Thinking about it now, when I was a child she was just a strict woman telling everyone off and selling everything off. I didn't know what to think of this fearsome woman.

Perhaps my early apathy and indifference are a result of what Thatcher deliberately engendered, the idea that "there is no such thing as society", that we are alone on our journey through life, solitary atoms of consciousness. Or perhaps it was just because I was a little kid and more interested in them Weetabix skinheads, Roland Rat and Knight Rider. Either way, I'm an adult now and none of those things are on telly any more so there's no excuse for apathy.

When John Lennon was told of Elvis Presley's death, he famously responded: "Elvis died when he joined the army," meaning of course, that his combat clothing and clipped hair signalled the demise of the thrusting, Dionysian revolution of which he was the immaculate emblem.

When I awoke today on LA time my phone was full of impertinent digital eulogies. It'd be disingenuous to omit that there were a fair number of ding-dong-style celebratory messages amidst the pensive reflections on the end of an era. Interestingly, one mate of mine, a proper leftie, in his heyday all Red Wedge and right-on punch-ups, was melancholy. "I thought I'd be overjoyed, but really it's just … another one bites the dust …" This demonstrates, I suppose, that if you opposed Thatcher's ideas it was likely because of their lack of compassion, which is really just a word for love. If love is something you cherish, it is hard to glean much joy from death, even in one's enemies.

Perhaps, though, Thatcher "the monster" didn't die yesterday from a stroke, perhaps that Thatcher died as she sobbed self-pitying tears as she was driven, defeated, from Downing Street, ousted by her own party. By then, 1990, I was 15, adolescent and instinctively anti-establishment enough to regard her disdainfully. I'd unthinkingly imbibed enough doctrine to know that, troubled as I was, there was little point looking elsewhere for support. I was on my own. We are all on our own. Norman Tebbit, one of Thatcher's acolytes and fellow "Munsters evacuee", said when the National Union of Mineworkers eventually succumbed to the military onslaught and starvation over which she presided: "We didn't just break the strike, we broke the spell." The spell he was referring to is the unseen bond that connects us all and prevents us from being subjugated by tyranny. The spell of community.

Those strikes were confusing to me as a child. All of the Tory edicts that bludgeoned our nation, as my generation squirmed through ghoulish puberty, were confusing. When all the public amenities were flogged, the adverts made it seem to my childish eyes fun and positive, jaunty slogans and affable British stereotypes jostling about in villages, selling people companies that they'd already paid for through tax. I just now watched the British Gas one again. It's like a whimsical live-action episode of Postman Pat where his cat is craftily carved up and sold back to him.

The Orgreave miners' strike in 1984. Photograph: Alamy

"The News" was the pompous conduit through which we suckled at the barren baroness through newscaster wet-nurses, naturally; not direct from the steel teat. Jan Leeming, Sue Lawley, Moira Stuart – delivering doctrine with sterile sexiness, like a butterscotch-scented beige vapour. To use a less bizarre analogy: if Thatcher was the headmistress, they were junior teachers, authoritative but warm enough that you could call them "mum" by accident. You could never call Margaret Mother by mistake. For a national matriarch she is oddly unmaternal. I always felt a bit sorry for her biological children Mark and Carol, wondering from whom they would get their cuddles. "Thatcher as mother" seemed, to my tiddly mind, anathema. How could anyone who was so resolutely Margaret Thatcher be anything else? In the Meryl Streep film, The Iron Lady, it's the scenes of domesticity that appear most absurd. Knocking up a flan for Denis or helping Carol with her algebra or Mark with his gun-running, are jarring distractions from the main narrative; woman as warrior queen.

It always struck me as peculiar, too, when the Spice Girls briefly championed Thatcher as an early example of girl power. I don't see that. She is an anomaly; a product of the freak-onomy of her time. Barack Obama, interestingly, said in his statement that she had "broken the glass ceiling for other women". Only in the sense that all the women beneath her were blinded by falling shards. She is an icon of individualism, not of feminism.

I have few recollections of Thatcher after the slowly chauffeured, weepy Downing Street cortege. I'd become a delinquent, living on heroin and benefit fraud.

There were sporadic resurrections. She would appear in public to drape a hankie over a model BA plane tailfin because she disliked the unpatriotic logo with which they'd replaced the union flag (maybe don't privatise BA then), or to shuffle about some country pile arm in arm with a doddery Pinochet and tell us all what a fine fellow he was. It always irks when rightwing folk demonstrate in a familial or exclusive setting the values that they deny in a broader social context. They're happy to share big windfall bonuses with their cronies, they'll stick up for deposed dictator chums when they're down on their luck, they'll find opportunities in business for people they care about. I hope I'm not being reductive but it seems Thatcher's time in power was solely spent diminishing the resources of those who had least for the advancement of those who had most. I know from my own indulgence in selfish behaviour that it's much easier to get what you want if you remove from consideration the effect your actions will have on others.

Is that what made her so formidable, her ability to ignore the suffering of others? Given the nature of her legacy "survival of the fittest" – a phrase that Darwin himself only used twice in On the Origin of Species, compared to hundreds of references to altruism, love and cooperation, it isn't surprising that there are parties tonight in Liverpool, Glasgow and Brixton – from where are they to have learned compassion and forgiveness?

The blunt, pathetic reality today is that a little old lady has died, who in the winter of her life had to water roses alone under police supervision. If you behave like there's no such thing as society, in the end there isn't. Her death must be sad for the handful of people she was nice to and the rich people who got richer under her stewardship. It isn't sad for anyone else. There are pangs of nostalgia, yes, because for me she's all tied up with Hi-De-Hi and Speak and Spell and Blockbusters and "follow the bear". What is more troubling is my inability to ascertain where my own selfishness ends and her neo-liberal inculcation begins. All of us that grew up under Thatcher were taught that it is good to be selfish, that other people's pain is not your problem, that pain is in fact a weakness and suffering is deserved and shameful. Perhaps there is resentment because the clemency and respect that are being mawkishly displayed now by some and haughtily demanded of the rest of us at the impending, solemn ceremonial funeral, are values that her government and policies sought to annihilate.

I can't articulate with the skill of either of "the Marks" – Steel or Thomas – why Thatcher and Thatcherism were so bad for Britain but I do recall that even to a child her demeanour and every discernible action seemed to be to the detriment of our national spirit and identity. Her refusal to stand against apartheid, her civil war against the unions, her aggression towards our neighbours in Ireland and a taxation system that was devised in the dark ages, the bombing of a retreating ship – it's just not British.

I do not yet know what effect Margaret Thatcher has had on me as an individual or on the character of our country as we continue to evolve. As a child she unnerved me but we are not children now and we are free to choose our own ethical codes and leaders that reflect them.

శ్రీ కౌముది ఏప్రిల్ 2013

Can We Patent Life

Posted by Michael Specter

On April 12, 1955, Jonas Salk, who had recently invented the polio vaccine, appeared on the television news show “See It Now” to discuss its impact on American society. Before the vaccine became available, dread of polio was almost as widespread as the disease itself. Hundreds of thousands fell ill, most of them children, many of whom died or were permanently disabled.

The vaccine changed all that, and Edward R. Murrow, the show’s host, asked Salk what seemed to be a reasonable question about such a valuable commodity: “Who owns the patent on this vaccine?” Salk was taken aback. “Well, the people,” he said. “There is no patent. Could you patent the sun?”

The very idea, to Salk, seemed absurd. But that was more than fifty years ago, before the race to mine the human genome turned into the biological Klondike rush of the twenty-first century. Between 1944, when scientists determined that DNA served as the carrier of genetic information, and 1953, when Watson and Crick described it as a double helix, the rate of discovery was rapid. Since then, and particularly after 2003, when work on the genome revealed that we are each built out of roughly twenty-five thousand genes, the promise of genomics has grown exponentially.

The intellectual and commercial bounty from that research has already been enormous, and it increases nearly every day, as we learn ways in which specific genes are associated with diseases—or with mechanisms that can prevent them. It took thousands of scientists and technicians more than a decade to complete the Human Genome Project, and cost well over a billion dollars. The same work can now be carried out in a day or two, in a single laboratory, for a thousand dollars—and the costs continue to plummet. As they do, we edge closer to one of modern science’s central goals: an era of personalized medicine, in which an individual’s treatment for scores of illnesses could be tailored to his specific genetic composition. That, of course, assumes that we own our own genes.

And yet, nearly twenty per cent of the genome—more than four thousand genes—are already covered by at least one U.S. patent. These include genes for Alzheimer’s disease, colon cancer, asthma, and two in particular—BRCA1 and BRCA2—that are highly associated with breast cancer. Myriad Genetics, a company that specializes in molecular diagnostics, holds the rights to those two genes. Anyone conducting an experiment on them without a license can be sued for infringement of patent rights. This means that Myriad can decide what research is carried out on those genes, who can do that research, and how much any resulting therapy or diagnostic test will cost. The same holds true for other genes and for any pharmaceutical company, scientist, or university that holds patents similar to those held by Myriad.

In 2009, the American Civil Liberties Union and the Public Patent Foundation brought a lawsuit, on behalf of more than twenty plaintiffs, against Myriad and the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, challenging claims on Myriad’s patents and on the right of any company to patent gene sequences. (The company’s responding brief is here, and a collection of documents pertaining to the suit, assembled by the Genomics Law Report, can be found here.) On April 15th, after several years of appeals and reversals, the Supreme Court will hear arguments on the essential issue: Should human genes be patented?

Traditionally, patents have applied solely to inventions, granted as a reward for ingenuity and to encourage innovation. Naturally occurring substances, like DNA, were exempt from such laws. Then, in 1980, Ananda Mohan Chakrabarty, a scientist working for General Electric, filed an application for a patent on a bacterium that he had modified genetically so that it could consume oil. The Patent and Trademark Office rejected Chakrabarty’s application on the ground that the bacterium was a product of nature. Chakrabarty sued, arguing that, by altering the organism, it was his ingenuity that made the bacterium valuable. The case ended up before the Supreme Court, which, by a vote of five to four, ruled in favor of the engineer. “The fact that micro-organisms are alive is without legal significance for the purpose of patent law,” the Court wrote. Chakrabarty’s creation became the first life-form to receive a patent.

Since then, genes considered to have been “isolated from their natural state and purified” have been eligible for patent protection. The first such patents were issued for DNA that had been altered to produce specific proteins, such as the insulin used daily by millions of diabetics. Those patents were rarely controversial. Over the years, however, patents have also been granted to people who have identified genes with mutations that are likely to increase the risk of a disease. Any scientist who wants to conduct research on such a gene—even on a small sequence of its DNA—has to pay license fees. The practical effect has been chilling. According to public-health officials and academic leaders, it has stymied research into many types of disease.

“A patent on a product of Nature would authorize the patent holder to exclude everyone from observing, characterizing or analyzing, by any means whatsoever, the product of Nature,” Eric S. Lander wrote in an amicus brief. Lander is the president and founding director of the Broad Institute of Harvard and M.I.T. He is among the country’s most eminent scientists, and helped run the Human Genome Project. “This barrier is inherently insurmountable: one cannot study a product of Nature if one cannot legally possess it.”

Moreover, when a company patents a gene, it also patents the rights to what that gene (or any fragment of its DNA) might tell us about our health, including our chances of living or dying. A woman who inherits a harmful version of either of the genes that Myriad has under patent, for example, is five times more likely to develop breast cancer than a woman who does not. She is also at significantly greater risk of developing ovarian cancer. Women who want to know whether they possess those harmful mutations have just one way of finding out: by taking a three-thousand-dollar blood test offered by Myriad Genetics. To seek a second opinion on such a critical issue, their only option is to pay to take the test again. This is because Myriad, as is its right under patent law, has prevented laboratories from performing the test or developing alternative versions. It is important to remember what is at stake: breast cancer kills more women in the Western world than any other kind of cancer. Even the best tests are sometimes wrong; second opinions save lives.

“If these patents are enforced, our genomic liberty is lost,” Christopher E. Mason, of Weill Cornell Medical College, said. He and Jeffrey Rosenfeld, an assistant professor of medicine at the University of Medicine & Dentistry of New Jersey, published a study last week in the journal Genome Medicine demonstrating that, when one looks not just at entire genes but at DNA sequences contained within them, nearly the entire human genome is covered by patents. “Just as we enter the era of personalized medicine, we are ironically living in the most restrictive age of genomics. You have to ask, how is it possible that my doctor cannot look at my DNA without being concerned about patent infringement?” The biotechnology industry contends that if the patents aren’t upheld, entrepreneurs and many businesses, particularly pharmaceutical and agricultural companies that rely heavily on genetically-modified products, will have less incentive to innovate.

In arguments before the appeals court, lawyers for Myriad compared the use of the genes that the company has patented with efforts to extract minerals from the ground. Without the man-made process of extraction, the minerals are useless. When Judge William Bryson of the United States Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit asked Myriad’s attorney Greg Castanias if that meant that simply getting an element out of the ground ought to be considered an invention—he used lithium as an example, but he could have chosen anything from the periodic table of elements—Myriad’s lawyer said yes.

Jonas Salk would not be amused, but if the Supreme Court buys Myriad’s argument, the sun, along with the carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen contained within it, will indeed be up for grabs. And so will every gene in our bodies, as well as all the DNA that scientists have mined, with increasing success, in their efforts to overcome the diseases that plague us all.

Illustration by Richard McGuire

His father's son: Rahul echoes Rajiv's words on party, govt, education...

D K Singh : New Delhi, Sun Mar 17 2013, 01:09 hrs

 








Blame it on the static nature of Indian politics whose context remains unchanged for decades or attribute it to father-son bonding. As he sets out to "transform" the system in India, Congress vice-president Rahul Gandhi is drawing words, ideas, beliefs and even phraseology from his late father Rajiv Gandhi's speeches.

Even as Rajiv's famous 1985 US Congress address about the dreams of a "young" and "impatient" India has been the leitmotif of Rahul's political action plan, the latter's statement last week in the Parliament Central Hall about his belief in Nishkama Karma of the Gita echoed Rajiv's remarks in 1987 about how his late mother Indira Gandhi "never hesitated to do what she thought was right in the spirit of Nishkama Karma".
This was only the latest evidence of how the young scion of the Nehru-Gandhi family continues to seek intellectual inspiration from his father.

Interacting with students in Srinagar in 2008, Rahul had sought to differentiate between the education systems of India and abroad saying, "We don't ask people (students) to ask questions. When I was studying at St Stephen's College, asking a question was not (perceived to be) good in our class. You were looked down upon if you asked too many questions."

While this had caused outrage at his alma mater, forcing him to later visit the campus to clarify his remarks, it turns out that he was only echoing his father's views on the issue. "In education, our school system does not instill the inquiring spirit in the minds of our children. A questioning mind is not developed. We are taught by rote. We are taught that the teacher is always right and correct. We are taught never to question the teacher," said Rajiv at the Indian Science Congress in Bangalore in 1987.

After presenting the National Youth Awards 1985 in New Delhi, Rajiv had said: "I know from travelling around the country that there is a tremendous amount of excellence available in our people, but the system does not allow it to rise to the top; it suffocates, it stifles, and keeps mediocrity at the top." In another speech on responsive administration a few months later, the then prime minister observed, "Too often, I find that the bureaucracy is closed up into its own little boxes."

In January 2013, in his address at the Congress session in Jaipur, Rahul re-phrased this, observing how people's lives are decided by "people behind closed doors". "It has become a system that robs people of their voice. Every single day, I meet people who have tremendous understanding, deep insight and no voice. They are kept outside our systems. All our public systems are closed systems. Their designs promote mediocrity and mediocrity dominates discussion," said Rahul.

At the Congress centenary session in Mumbai in 1985, Rajiv had lambasted the party system. "Corruption is not only tolerated but even regarded as the hallmark of leadership. Flagrant contradiction between what we say and what we do has become our way of life. At every step, our aims and actions conflict," he had said.
Twenty-eight years later, Rahul echoed the same in Jaipur. "Every single day we are faced with the hypocrisy of the system. People who are corrupt stand up and talk about eradicating corruption and people who disrespect women everyday talk about women's rights," he said.

Replying to the debate on the President's Address in the Lok Sabha in 1987, Rajiv had stated: "Today, when India speaks, it is not the India of 1979 where nobody even bothered to listen to us. Today, when India speaks, India is listened to. It is heard, India counts."

At the Jaipur session, Rahul said: "Today India is not like it was in 1984. We are no longer seen as worthless. Today the entire world is courting us. Today we are the future."

After becoming party vice-president, Rahul has been lamenting the absence of rules and discipline in the party, an issue forcefully raised by Rajiv when he was Congress president. Like his father, Rahul has also been talking about changes in electoral laws and political funding.

Incidentally, Rajiv liked to recount his conversations with his mother. He had told Congressmen during the Bombay session how his late mother Indira Gandhi had borne with stoic fortitude the irreparable loss of a son (Sanjay Gandhi). "She gave me no directions, no formulate, no prescriptions. She just said, 'Understand the real India, its people'," he said.

Decades later, newly-appointed Congress vice-president Rahul told partymen about his mother's late night power-is-poison advice, bringing tears to many eyes.

Congress leaders believe that repetition of Rajiv's ideas reflects Rahul's determination to carry out what was left unfinished due to his father's untimely death. "Every son looks up to his father for inspiration. When Soniaji had become Congress president, she was also taken through extracts of Nehru's and Indiraji's speeches," a senior Congress leader told The Sunday Express.

Read this article at The Indian Express, Sat, 16 Mar 2013, 18:46 IST

PAST IMPERFECT

March 1, 2013

The True-Life Horror that Inspired Moby-Dick

Herman Melville, circa 1860. Photo: Wikipedia

In July of 1852, a 32-year-old novelist named Herman Melville had high hopes for his new novel, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale, despite the book’s mixed reviews and tepid sales. That month he took a steamer to Nantucket for his first visit to the Massachusetts island, home port of his novel’s mythic protagonist, Captain Ahab, and his ship, the Pequod. Like a tourist, Melville met local dignitaries, dined out and took in the sights of the village he had previously only imagined.

And on his last day on Nantucket he met the broken-down 60-year-old man who had captained the Essex, the ship that had been attacked and sunk by a sperm whale in an 1820 incident that had inspired Melville’s novel. Captain George Pollard Jr. was just 29 years old when the Essex went down, and he survived and returned to Nantucket to captain a second whaling ship, Two Brothers. But when that ship wrecked on a coral reef two years later, the captain was marked as unlucky at sea—a “Jonah”—and no owner would trust a ship to him again. Pollard lived out his remaining years on land, as the village night watchman.

Herman Melville drew inspiration for Moby-Dick from the 1820 whale attack on the Essex. Photo: Wikipedia

Melville had written about Pollard briefly in Moby-Dick, and only with regard to the whale sinking his ship. During his visit, Melville later wrote, the two merely “exchanged some words.” But Melville knew Pollard’s ordeal at sea did not end with the sinking of the Essex, and he was not about to evoke the horrific memories that the captain surely carried with him. “To the islanders he was a nobody,” Melville wrote, “to me, the most impressive man, tho’ wholly unassuming, even humble—that I ever encountered.”

Pollard had told the full story to fellow captains over a dinner shortly after his rescue from the Essex ordeal, and to a missionary named George Bennet. To Bennet, the tale was like a confession. Certainly, it was grim: 92 days and sleepless nights at sea in a leaking boat with no food, his surviving crew going mad beneath the unforgiving sun, eventual cannibalism and the harrowing fate of two teenage boys, including Pollard’s first cousin, Owen Coffin. “But I can tell you no more—my head is on fire at the recollection,” Pollard told the missionary. “I hardly know what I say.”

The trouble for Essex began, as Melville knew, on August 14, 1819, just two days after it left Nantucket on a whaling voyage that was supposed to last two and a half years. The 87-foot-long ship was hit by a squall that destroyed its topgallant sail and nearly sank it. Still, Pollard continued, making it to Cape Horn five weeks later. But the 20-man crew found the waters off South America nearly fished out, so they decided to sail for distant whaling grounds in the South Pacific, far from any shores.

To restock, the Essex anchored at Charles Island in the Galapagos, where the crew collected sixty 100-pound tortoises. As a prank, one of the crew set a fire, which, in the dry season, quickly spread. Pollard’s men barely escaped, having to run through flames, and a day after they set sail, they could still see smoke from the burning island. Pollard was furious, and swore vengeance on whoever set the fire. Many years later Charles Island was still a blackened wasteland, and the fire was believed to have caused the extinction of both the Floreana Tortoise and the Floreana Mockingbird.

Essex First Mate Owen Chase, later in life. Photo: Wikipedia

By November of 1820, after months of a prosperous voyage and a thousand miles from the nearest land, whaleboats from the Essex had harpooned whales that dragged them out toward the horizon in what the crew called “Nantucket sleigh rides.” Owen Chase, the 23-year-old first mate, had stayed aboard the Essex to make repairs while Pollard went whaling. It was Chase who spotted a very big whale—85 feet in length, he estimated—lying quietly in the distance, its head facing the ship. Then, after two or three spouts, the giant made straight for the Essex, “coming down for us at great celerity,” Chase would recall—at about three knots. The whale smashed head-on into the ship with “such an appalling and tremendous jar, as nearly threw us all on our faces.”

The whale passed underneath the ship and began thrashing in the water. “I could distinctly see him smite his jaws together, as if distracted with rage and fury,” Chase recalled. Then the whale disappeared. The crew was addressing the hole in the ship and getting the pumps working when one man cried out, “Here he is—he is making for us again.” Chase spotted the whale, his head half out of water, bearing down at great speed—this time at six knots, Chase thought. This time it hit the bow directly under the cathead and disappeared for good.

The water rushed into the ship so fast, the only thing the crew could do was lower the boats and try fill them with navigational instruments, bread, water and supplies before the Essex turned over on its side.
Pollard saw his ship in distress from a distance, then returned to see the Essex in ruin. Dumbfounded, he asked, “My God, Mr. Chase, what is the matter?”

“We have been stove by a whale,” his first mate answered.

Another boat returned, and the men sat in silence, their captain still pale and speechless. Some, Chase observed, “had no idea of the extent of their deplorable situation.”

The men were unwilling to leave the doomed Essex as it slowly foundered, and Pollard tried to come up with a plan. In all, there were three boats and 20 men. They calculated that the closest land was the Marquesas Islands and the Society Islands, and Pollard wanted to set off for them—but in one of the most ironic decisions in nautical history, Chase and the crew convinced him that those islands were peopled with cannibals and that the crew’s best chance for survival would be to sail south. The distance to land would be far greater, but they might catch the trade winds or be spotted by another whaling ship. Only Pollard seemed to understand the implications of steering clear of the islands. (According to Nathaniel Philbrick, in his book In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex, although rumors of cannibalism persisted, traders had been visiting the islands without incident.)

Thus they left the Essex aboard their 20-foot boats. They were challenged almost from the start. Saltwater saturated the bread, and the men began to dehydrate as they ate their daily rations. The sun was ravaging. Pollard’s boat was attacked by a killer whale. They spotted land—Henderson Island—two weeks later, but it was barren. After another week the men began to run out of supplies. Still, three of them decided they’d rather take their chances on land than climb back into a boat. No one could blame them. And besides, it would stretch the provisions for the men in the boats.

The whaleship Essex, “stove by a whale” in 1821. Photo: Wikipedia

By mid-December, after weeks at sea, the boats began to take on water, more whales menaced the men at night, and by January, the paltry rations began to take their toll.  On Chase’s boat, one man went mad, stood up and demanded a dinner napkin and water, then fell into “most horrid and frightful convulsions” before perishing the next morning. “Humanity must shudder at the dreadful recital” of what came next, Chase wrote. The crew “separated limbs from his body, and cut all the flesh from the bones; after which, we opened the body, took out the heart, and then closed it again—sewed it up as decently as we could, and committed it to the sea.”  They then roasted the man’s organs on a flat stone and ate them.

Over the coming week, three more sailors died, and their bodies were cooked and eaten. One boat disappeared, and then Chase’s and Pollard’s boats lost sight of each other. The rations of human flesh did not last long, and the more the survivors ate, the hungrier they felt. On both boats the men became too weak to talk. The four men on Pollard’s boat reasoned that without more food, they would die. On February 6, 1821—nine weeks after they’d bidden farewell to the Essex—Charles Ramsdell, a teenager, proposed they draw lots to determine who would be eaten next. It was the custom of the sea, dating back, at least in recorded instance, to the first half of the 17th century. The men in Pollard’s boat accepted Ramsdell’s suggestion, and the lot fell to young Owen Coffin, the captain’s first cousin.

Pollard had promised the boy’s mother he’d look out for him. “My lad, my lad!” the captain now shouted, “if you don’t like your lot, I’ll shoot the first man that touches you.” Pollard even offered to step in for the boy, but Coffin would have none of it. “I like it as well as any other,” he said.

Ramsdell drew the lot that required him to shoot his friend. He paused a long time. But then Coffin rested his head on the boat’s gunwale and Ramsdell pulled the trigger.

“He was soon dispatched,” Pollard would say, “and nothing of him left.”

By February 18, after 89 days at sea, the last three men on Chase’s boat spotted a sail in the distance. After a frantic chase, they managed to catch the English ship Indian and were rescued.

Three hundred miles away, Pollard’s boat carried only its captain and Charles Ramsdell. They had only the bones of the last crewmen to perish, which they smashed on the bottom of the boat so that they could eat the marrow. As the days passed the two men obsessed over the bones scattered on the boat’s floor. Almost a week after Chase and his men had been rescued, a crewman aboard the American ship Dauphin spotted Pollard’s boat. Wretched and confused, Pollard and Ramsdell did not rejoice at their rescue, but simply turned to the bottom of their boat and stuffed bones into their pockets. Safely aboard the Dauphin, the two delirious men were seen “sucking the bones of their dead mess mates, which they were loath to part with.”
The five Essex survivors were reunited in Valparaiso, where they recuperated before sailing back for Nantucket. As Philbrick writes,  Pollard had recovered enough to join several captains for dinner, and he told them the entire story of the Essex wreck and his three harrowing months at sea. One of the captains present returned to his room and wrote everything down, calling Pollard’s account “the most distressing narrative that ever came to my knowledge.”

Years later, the third boat was discovered on Ducie Island; three skeletons were aboard. Miraculously, the three men who chose to stay on Henderson Island survived for nearly four months, mostly on shellfish and bird eggs, until an Australian ship rescued them.

Once they arrived in Nantucket, the surviving crewmen of the Essex were welcomed, largely without judgment. Cannibalism in the most dire of circumstances, it was reasoned, was a custom of the sea. (In similar incidents, survivors declined to eat the flesh of the dead but used it as bait for fish. But Philbrick notes that the men of the Essex were in waters largely devoid of marine life at the surface.)

Captain Pollard, however, was not as easily forgiven, because he had eaten his cousin. (One scholar later referred to the act as “gastronomic incest.”) Owen Coffin’s mother could not abide being in the captain’s presence. Once his days at sea were over, Pollard spent the rest of his life in Nantucket. Once a year, on the anniversary of the wreck of the Essex, he was said to have locked himself in his room and fasted in honor of his lost crewmen.

By 1852, Melville and Moby-Dick had begun their own slide into obscurity. Despite the author’s hopes, his book sold but a few thousand copies in his lifetime, and Melville, after a few more failed attempts at novels, settled into a reclusive life and spent 19 years as a customs inspector in New York City. He drank and suffered the death of his two sons. Depressed, he abandoned novels for poetry. But George Pollard’s fate was never far from his mind. In his poem Clarel he writes of

A night patrolman on the quay
Watching the bales till morning hour
Through fair and foul. Never he smiled;
Call him, and he would come; not sour
In spirit, but meek and reconciled:
Patient he was, he none withstood;
Oft on some secret thing would brood.

Check this and other articles at http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/history/2013/03/the-true-life-horror-that-inspired-moby-dick/

శ్రీ కౌముది మార్చ్ 2013

 

God on the Hill, Goddess on the Plain, and the Space In-Between: Tirupati, South India

 

జనవరి 2013 » వ్యాసాలు

రచన : Joyce B. Flueckiger

[జాయ్స్ ఫ్లూకిగర్ (Joyce Burkhalter Flueckiger) అట్లాంటా లోని ఎమరీ యూనివర్సిటీ, మతధర్మశాస్త్ర విభాగంలో ఆచార్యులుగా పనిచేస్తున్నారు. బాల్యం అంతా ఇండియాలో గడిపిన ఫ్లూకిగర్, 18వ యేట అమెరికాకు తిరిగి వచ్చి, విస్కాన్సిన్ యూనివర్సిటీ నుండి దక్షిణ భారత ప్రాంత అధ్యయనంలో పిహెచ్.డీ పొందారు. మౌఖిక సాహిత్యం మీద, సమాజంలో స్త్రీల పాత్ర, జాతరలలో ప్రదర్శించే కళల పుట్టుపూర్వోత్తరాలు, తదితర అంశాల మీద పరిశోధనలు చేసి పుస్తకాలు వ్రాశారు. 2013లో ప్రచురించబడబోయే వీరి పుస్తకం When the World Becomes Female: Guises of a South Indian Goddessలో గంగమ్మ జాతర గురించి వ్రాసిన అధ్యాయం నుంచి ఈమాట ప్రత్యేక సంచికలో ప్రచురణకై ఈ వ్యాసం పంపించారు.]

V. Narayana Rao first introduced me to Tirupati in 1992, when he invited me to attend the annual jātara of the downhill grāmadevata Gangamma with him, David Shulman, and Don Handelman. I later returned several times for long- and short-term fieldwork with Gangamma and her devotees. Narayana Rao frequently suggested to me that there was a left-hand caste ethos that crossed the seemingly disparate worlds of the goddess and her sisters downhill and that of the god uphill. This essay explores some images of these connections between uphill and down.

Panoramic Tirupati mountain

The south Indian pilgrimage town of Tirupati is best-known for the wealthy temple (said to be the wealthiest religious institution in the world) and pilgrimage site of the God of the Seven Hills, Venkatesvara. His temple is nestled at the far end of a series of koṇḍas–often translated as ‘hills,’ but which visually, from the plains below, is a mountain with a dramatic rock face overlooking the town. The god draws up to 750,000 pilgrims a day[1]. Locally, the Tirumala temple complex on the mountain is most often referred to in English as ‘uphill,’ a designation that implies a relationship with ‘downhill’, the plains below (Telugu: koṇḍa mīda and koṇḍa kinda.) During the year I conducted research there, Tirupati residents often asked me if I’d gone uphill on a particular day, not “did you go to Tirumala” or “did you take darśan of the god,” or some other direct reference to the god or his temple[2].

Venkatesvara’s wife Padmavati–locally known as Alamelumanga–does not reside with him at the mountaintop, but in a temple on the plains—which the god visits every night. And so, too, Venkatesvara’s brother, Govinda Raja Swamy—his temple with its large gopuram anchors the center of the bustling pilgrimage town downhill, near the railway and bus stations. Venkatesvara is also said to be the brother of the plains-residing village goddess (grāmadevata) Gangamma, to whom he sends an auspicious gift for her annual festival. There is lots of coming and going—literal and imaginative, narratively and ritually–between mountain and plains—the most tangible of which is the footpath up the mountain that many pilgrims walk up instead of taking the more recently available buses and taxis.

Tāllapāka Gangamma

In this essay, I focus on the literal space and movement between uphill and down–as well as some of the ritual and narrative traditions that tie the two together–rather than the journey from home places that pilgrims may take[3][4]. I am also referring to a specific geographic site and the deity who takes up residence uphill in Tirumala, not the multiple temples in which Venkatesvara also resides, including in the diaspora—which is a different form of movement. (It is significant that not all deities have this kind of mobility within or outside of India, such as grāmadevatas who don’t cross the seven seas, so to speak, or even regional boundaries within India; and thus the character of the God of the Seven Hills shifts, when he is removed from the local Tirupati landscape and its constellation of deities.)

This essay draws an imaginaire of spatial, ritual, kinship, and narrative relationships between mountain and plains and their respective divine and human inhabitants—particularly for local residents who live under the shadow of the mountain. I ask what is created imaginatively and performatively by this movement between hills and plains—and what it implies about the nature of the god. That the God of the Seven Hills and his grāmadevata sister inhabit an overlapping imaginaire for Tirupati residents belies the ways in which puranic deities and grāmadevatas have often been analyzed in academic circles as discrete, bounded traditions.

The mountain as anchor

Let’s begin with the physical mountain itself. Coming into Tirupati by train or bus from the east, the land begins to swell from the paddy fields, and travelers know they’re close to the town that is anchored by the mountain range on which the great god lives. The mountain range is called Saptagiri—literally, Seven Hills–which reaches to a height of 1104 meters; god lives on the seventh range, Venkatagiri[5]. The train a pilgrim to Tirupati is riding may be one that is named after one of the ranges–Narayanadri or Venkatadri—and the mountain may have already entered his/her imagination when boarding the train in Hyderabad.

Rising dramatically from the plains, the front range of the Saptagiri anchors and gives identity to Tirupati’s physical and imaginative landscape. Its sheer rock face catches the shifting light throughout the day in a kaleidoscope of colors and shadows; the rock face changes with the seasons when it becomes a resting stop for monsoon clouds or reflects the sizzling hot season heat back onto the town. Although the god actually lives in the interior of the mountain ranges, when Tirupati residents and pilgrims look up at the rock face towering above the town, they see god—the mountain and god are synonymous. And thus the common expression to refer to Venkatesvara’s temple complex of Tirumala: uphill.

Tāllapāka Gangamma

I’ve proposed in my forthcoming book[6] on the plains grāmadevata goddess Gangamma that the mountain and its deity quite literally anchor her in place, too. She and her sisters (the Seven Sisters associated with hot season poxes and rashes) are characterized in both narrative and ritual as moving/fluid goddesses. They traditionally live on village boundaries; and even as villages and towns have expanded and grown up around them, many of these Sisters have not permitted temples to be built over them[7]. There are numerous oral accounts of efforts of worshipers of particular grāmadevatas trying to build permanent shrines that would cover their heads, and the constructions continually falling down or illnesses striking the community until efforts to enclose them were suspended. The goddesses want to be free to move. However, in Tirupati, there are several permanent temples to these Sisters (particularly the Tattāyagunta and Tāllapāka temples); perhaps the sisters permit these anchoring enclosures, in part, because of their relationship to the god on the mountain who is their brother. Conceptually, this stability has opened up devotional relationships with Gangamma that are not characteristic of her worship in surrounding villages—she’s now stable enough, in one place long enough, to permit this kind of personal relationship with her.

The mobile god, between mountain and plains

In contrast to the moving/fluid goddess Gangamma, who I suggest is stabilized in Tirupati by the mountain and its god, the presumably stable god himself also moves, outside of his temple complex and up and down between the mountain on which he lives and the plains below.

Venkatesvara is said to walk downhill every night to visit his wife Alamelumanga. She lives independently of her husband, in a temple downhill in Tiruchanur, four kilometers outside of Tirupati—a living situation that is an extremely rare, if not unique, phenomenon for consort-goddess temples[8]. (Of course, as is typical of Hindu traditions, imaginatively she is multiple: she simultaneously resides downhill and on her husband’s stone chest of his temple form, for example; so what I am talking about here is specifically her independent temple.) I heard several different explanations for this separate living arrangement[9], including Alamelumanga’s jealousy over the god letting Lakshmi (a goddess both distinct from and identified with Alamelumanga) reside along with her on his chest. Another story tells of Alamelumanga’s jealousy over Venkatesvara’s relationship with a Muslim concubine named Bibi Nanchari (said to be a reincarnation of Bhu Devi), and this is why, it is said, she refuses to live uphill with her husband. Still another oral tradition recounts Venkatesvara’s impatience with his wife after their wedding, when she kept forgetting one thing or another as he waited for her to walk with him to his residence on top of the mountain. In exasperation, he told her that he was going to spit on the ground and that she should return before the spit dried up. Insulted by this ultimatum, Alamelumanga told her husband that she was going to stay downhill, and that if he wanted to meet her, he would have to come to her[10].

Feet of the God

Whatever the reason for separate residences, it is said that it incumbent on Venkatesvara to come down to visit his wife every night, rather than her going uphill; and all the walking up and down wears out his sandals, which have to be replaced daily. At the bottom of the footpath going uphill is a temple whose main image is the feet of the god. Pilgrims here place a pair of brass sandals on their heads as they circumambulate the god’s feet, showing humility towards the god as well as embodying a reminder of the distance covered nightly by the god, as he visits his wife.

The god also has other relatives who live on the plains. Most important of these is his brother Govinda Raja Swamy, whose temple gopuram dominates the skyline of the town below. The story is told that when Venkatesvara wanted to get married, he needed to borrow money for his wedding from his brother Govinda Raja Swamy. He is still paying interest on that loan even today, and pilgrims’ gifts placed in the temple huṇḍī (cash box) are said to be applied towards interest on that loan[11]. Huṇḍī cash contents are conspicuously counted in public at the end of every day, visible to pilgrims on their way out of the temple complex after having taken darśan of the indebted god. On his part, Govinda Raja Swamy downhill is a reclining image that rests its head on a vessel he has used to measure the cash interest he’s been paid by Venkatesvara; he’s tired out from expending so much energy on this task. In contrast to his moving brother, Govinda Raja Swamy seems rather sedentary and doesn’t leave his temple.

Venkatesvara’s mother, Vakulamatha, also lives downhill (and then again up), atop a small hill facing Tirupati in Perurbanda village, 15 kilometers from Tirupati. When a devotee proposed in 2007 to fund renovation of what had become a rather dilapidated temple—and illegal quarrying was posing a threat to Vakulamata Devi Temple–the Devasthanam responsible for Tirumala (TTD) decided to build the temple closer to Tirumala, with the intention to help support building temples for Vakulamata at all sites where there is a Venkatesvara temple. Significantly, their proposal was not to build the Tirupati Vakulamatha temple uphill, but at the base of the hill, at Alipiri, where the footpath up the mountain begins. However, this proposed juxtaposition of mother to son raised problems. Tirumala priests and BJP leaders opposed this site “on the grounds that it would go against the Hindu dharma to place the mother at the feet of her son and the idea was dropped.”[12] Several Tirupati residents told me that “in the old days,” pilgrims used to (and still should) visit all Venkatesvara’s family members downhill (wife, brother, sister, and mother), even though their primary purpose is to take darśan of the God of the Seven Hills—an injunction that is being lost on many contemporary pilgrims who are rushing up and downhill under the pressures of modern-day schedules.

Gangamma in one of her jātara forms,
a coconut head (center), and Venkatesvara
in a Gangamma devotee household shrine

Locally, Venkatesvara is known to be a brother of the grāmadevata Gangamma, and he sends bride’s gifts of a sari and pasupu-kumkuma (turmeric-vermilion) to his sister downhill on the first day of her annual festival (jātara)—delivered downhill atop an elephant (protected by a large parasol) to her Tattayagunta temple. While the god himself does not attend the jātara, his gifting is another means of enacting the important links between uphill and down. The association is also performed on the domestic pūjā shelves–where both Venkatesvara and Gangamma have been installed and are worshiped daily–of the families who are key ritual actors in Gangamma’s jātara. One of these families, the Kaikalas, has the mirāsi (rights and responsibilities) to both take the perambulating veṣams (forms) of Gangamma during her jātara and to unlock the temple of Venkatesvara’s brother, Govinda Raja Swamy, every morning. The Kaikalas perform their mirāsi tasks for both Gangamma and Venkatesvara’s brother as integrated ritual systems.

Dicing scene on hillside outside
Hathi Ramji Matham uphill

We return now to other circumstances under which the god moves–when he leaves his temple to visit or give darśan to his devotees. We have two starkly contrasting examples.The first is the story of the god visiting his devotee Hathi Ramji, a north Indian devotee who built a maṭham facing the Tirumala temple. Because of Hathi Ramji’s great devotion, Venkatesvara is said to have visited the former’s maṭham to play dice with him every evening. This story is part of the dominant mythology of the temple, and an image of the two playing dice is engraved on the silver door to the garbhagṛham (inner shrine room) of Venkatesvara’s Tirumala temple. A larger-than-life-size plaster image of the two dicing friends has been built on the hillside of the maṭham that faces the temple’s outer courtyard, visible to all pilgrims standing in darśan lines (the pushing and shoving at the doorway to the garbhagṛham is such that they may well miss the image on the silver door of the garbhagṛham).

Image of prostrating devotee

A second example of the god willingly leaving his temple for the sake of his devotees is less talked about, for reasons that will become clear. In this case, the god is said to walk downhill to the base of the mountain, which, in earlier days, was the closest one of his untouchable devotees was allowed to come. (Some say this is the cobbler who daily made a new pair of sandals for the god.) Since the devotee was not allowed uphill, god himself walked down daily to give him his darśan. A poignant image has been created in cement at the base of the footpath (the image is likely much newer than the narrative)—the male devotee lying prostrate towards the mountain, covered in turmeric and vermillion. Smaller images to his right are identified as his wife and children. Many pilgrims prostrate next to this figure before they begin their journey up the footpath; those whom I asked did not know the story or identity of the prostrate figure, but thought that the image was a sign of humility that they should emulate.

A prostrating devotee

The mobile god Venkatesvara and his independently residing wife Alamelumanga provide us with traces of the cultural ethos of the rising 15th century cash economy of the region and the left-hand caste Vijayanagara kings who began the transformation of Venkatesvara’s temple into the center of ritual and economic power that it has become today[13]. Left-hand caste communities are associated with cash and mobility: traders, herders, artisans, and leather workers. Women of these castes have traditionally had more mobility and independence than women of the right-hand castes associated with the land, who are (ideally) protected by males and their mobility restricted, like the land itself[14][15][16]. Another trace of the left-hand-caste associations with the Tirumala temple is also indicated in the practice of first morning darśan of the god being given to representatives of a Golla (left-hand, herding-caste) family.

Footpath: the space between

Footpath to Tirumala

Before the car road was constructed and hundreds of buses and taxis began to transport pilgrims, they walked uphill. And today hundreds of pilgrims continue to do so, believing that to walk up the mountain brings more merit than riding a motorized conveyance[17]. The footpath begins at the base of the Seven Hills at a place called Alipiri[18]. The path is 9-11 kilometers long; I’ve walked the path several times, but had no way to mark the distance and have found conflicting information on exactly how long it is. These days a series of cement steps numbering 3350 are built into the path, having been constructed by the Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanam (TTD); much of the path is covered by galvanized-tin roofing to provide shade and cover from rains. Depending on their health and the rituals they perform on the way, most pilgrims reach the top of the hill in three to four hours.

Pilgrims with Sandals

The start of the path is indicated by a white-washed gopuram—the first in a series that mark for the foot-travelers the beginning of each of the seven mountain ranges, all the way up to the highest Venkatagiri. Immediately in front of the first gopuram, towards the plains side, is the previously mentioned temple dedicated to Venkatesvara’s feet, the Pādāla temple. Here the story of Venkatesvara wearing out his sandals going uphill and down is visually performed when pilgrims circumambulate the feet of god three times while carrying a set of brass sandals on their heads (these sandals are available for use with a Rs. 5 donation to the temple). Wealthy devotees may bring with them an offering to the god of new brass or silver sandals. When, in 2005, a devotee presented a pair of gold sandals weighing 32 grams, it was an event marked by a ritual abhiṣekam (anointing of the feet) with 100 litres of milk and widely reported in local newspapers[19].

Pasupu-kumkuma vow ritual
on footpath going uphill

Each of the 3350 cement steps on the footpath is covered with ritual applications of turmeric and vermillion (pasupu-kumkuma), the result of individual back-breaking vows by female pilgrims[20]. The visual contrast of looking at the steps going up or going down is dramatic—the vertical portion of each step brightly colored on the way up and the horizontal portion of the steps visible on the way down a somber gray.

Cradles tied for fertility

I spoke with several women about the kinds of vows they were taking or fulfilling—and they were happy to take a break from their rigorous task to talk with me. One young woman was accompanied by her brother, who rather sheepishly looked on as his sister explained that she’d taken a vow that if he were accepted into engineering school, she would fulfill the vow of marking every step on the footpath with pasupu-kumkuma. Another woman was performing the ritual-marking vow prior to its fulfillment, asking the god for fertility. The pasupu-kumkuma-marking ritual is the most visible, common ritual along the path, but a spectrum of other vow-making rituals adhere to the path, as well—including stacking small rocks and tying ‘cradles’ (for fertility) on low-hanging tree branches. The footpath rituals provide opportunity for fulfillment of individual vows and other rituals without dependence on any intermediaries, characteristic of rituals performed in the temple precincts uphill.

Seven Sister shrine on
Tirumala footpath

The TTD has recently built along the path 10-foot images of each of the ten avatāras of Visnu; and pilgrims also pass numerous more traditional shrines, including one to the Seven Sisters in a cave on the side of the mountain where the footpath and car road intersect. There is a wildlife park fenced off along one part of the path. And of course, the periodic, welcomed tea stall, where merchants have also set up small stalls of both religious and non-religious trinkets. But finally, very few on the footpath choose to walk for the entertainment of it all or as a trek (as has become a tradition at several Himalayan pilgrimage sites); walking up the footpath is itself powerful ritual, giving devotees bodily knowledge of and intimate access to the mountain on which the god dwells.

Vignettes of intersecting worlds

Two vignettes illustrate other kinds of fluid ritual associations between the God of the Seven Hills and the plains goddess Gangamma. My fieldwork associate and I had stopped at Hathi Ramji Matham (site of the north Indian religious order of Hathi Ramji, which had earlier administered the Venkatesvara temple uphill) to ask why the maṭham was one of the three sites where, during her jātara perambulations, the tongue of Gangamma (in her form of a veṣam taken on by a Kaikala-caste male) was pierced with a tiny silver trident. Having been directed by a sadhu sitting on the maṭham verandah into a large office, we were warmly greeted by a Brahmin man whom we came to know as Srinivasan, a ’superintendent’ at the maṭham who works with legal affairs and land registration. He answered our questions about the tongue-piercing rather cryptically, and then surprised us by saying (speaking in English): “Madam, you would be interested to know that I’ve taken stri veṣam [female guise] every year for 35 years.” He was referring to the jātara ritual of male participants taking on stri veṣam (saris, braids, breasts) in fulfillment of vows they (or their mothers on their behalf) have made to the goddess.

For several years prior, I had been saying, in talks I had given on Gangamma jātara, that Brahmins do not participate in the jātara except indirectly (perhaps sending pŏṅgal or bali to the goddess through the hands of a non-Brahmin servant). But now, here was a Brahmin who had participated in the jātara for 35 years by taking stri veṣam; and he spoke of this ritual as something quite ordinary, not exceptional for him as a Brahmin. Srinivasan explained that he had been sickly as a child and that his mother had made a vow (mŏkku) to Gangamma that if he regained full strength and health, he would take stri veṣam. At the urging of his grandmother, however, he said he had kept up the tradition for many years following fulfillment of the initial mŏkku. His grandmother had told him (again, reported in English), “Taking veṣam, just once a year, you can get a corner on women’s śakti.” He lives both in the worlds of the God uphill and the closely associated maṭham and the grāmadevata sister downhill with seemingly no sense of disjuncture.

The second vignette draws upon my encounter with an elderly Mudaliar-caste widow who had entered a ritual relationship with Gangamma by exchanging wedding pendants (tālis) with the goddess. She wore a large, dark-red pasupu bŏṭṭu and had matted hair that, she explained, was a sign of the presence of the goddess. Gangamma and devotee had, she reported, argued back and forth when the woman tried to shave off the matted hair and it continued to grow back. Once, she reported, the matted hair took the form of a snake’s hood, and she asked the goddess why this shape. Gangamma replied, “This is Venkatesvara’s jaḍa [braid; matted hair].” The presence of the grāmadevata goddess was revealed through a form of the god uphill. The kinship and ritual associations between the god on the mountain and Gangamma downhill remind us of the integrated worldview in which Tirupati residents live, incorporating both puranic and village deities, narratives, and rituals.

Conclusion

A View of the Tirumala Peak

In the local Tirupati imagination, the mountain and the plains below–and the deities that inhabit them—are part of a singular landscape with relationships and rituals that intersect and connect uphill and down. While the mountain anchors the landscape and stabilizes the traditionally moving, fluid Seven Sister goddesses, the god on the mountain–whose stability is performed as he gives darśan to thousands of pilgrims daily–also moves.

There are, of course, other deities who move out of their temples or other dwellings: for example, the river goddess Ganga Devi as she moves from her site of origin up in the high Himalayas (Gangotri) through the north Indian plains (Rishikesh, Varanasi, Allahabad) to the Bay of Bengal; Siva in Kedarnath as he descends in a dramatic procession from his Himalayan mountaintop to take up residence in the valley below for the winter season[21]; and much shorter temple processions of utsava murtis (festival, moveable images) for which the god leaves his temple during annual festivals, such as Jagannath’s Rath Yatra in Orissa, London, and Atlanta. What these movements signify and create varies with the specific contexts of each moving deity. Here in Tirupati, I suggest the god’s movement both reflects and creates a left-hand caste ethos; his movement also sustains/embodies his relationship with both the goddess on the plains and his devotees who live under the shadow of his dramatic mountain.

Interestingly, while the mountain looms large over the imaginative and physical landscape of Tirupati, the great 15th century poet Annamaya who sang daily to the god uphill for many decades (composing up to 13,000 padams) rarely mentions the mountain landscape in which Venkatesvara lives, except in the poet’s choice of name of address to the god—God on the hill[22]. Most of his padams are intimate love songs that look inward, not to the external physical landscape that may invoke in other contexts stirrings of passion. But I close with one padam that is particularly evocative of the “space in-between” that is traversed to create relationship between god and lover/devotee—here imaged by distant rivers reaching the sea; we could imagine a similar padam being composed around the image of the footpath between Tirupati’s mountaintop and plain below:

Distant Rivers Reach the Sea*
Tell him this one thing.
Distant rivers always reach the sea.
Being far is just like being near.
Would I think of him if I were far?
The sun in the sky is very far from the lotus.
From a distance, friendship is intense.
Distant rivers reach the sea.
The moment he looks at me, I look back at him
My face is turned only toward him.
Clouds are in the sky, the peacock in the forest.
Longing is in the look that connects.
Distant rivers reach the sea.
To speak of desire is as good as coming close.
Haven’t I come close to him?
The god on the hill is on the hill,
And where am I?
Look, we made love.
Miracles do happen.
Distant rivers reach the sea.

*(Translated by V. Narayana Rao and David Shulman[13])

Read this and other articles at  http://eemaata.com/em/

AKKANNA AND MADANNA OF GOLCONDA

AKKANNA AND MADANNA OF GOLCONDA WERE VICTIMS OF HINDU HATRED By AURANGZEB

Prof Dr Colonel K Prabhakar Rao (Retired)

Akkanna and Madanna were brothers and the sons of Bhanoji Pant an official at Hanmakonda in Golconda kingdom in the bye gone days ( 16 and 17 century). There is also a dispute that they were not real brothers and also were not Telugus and had Maharashtrian origin (1). Their lives were of importance as Madanna rose to become the Hindu Prime minister of Golconda State during the reign of Last ruler Abul Hassan Kutubshah ( tanasha .. meaning good king). Madanna entered the service of Syed Muzaffar Army Chief of Golconda State and by hard work rose to the rank of Mir Jumla with a title Surya Prakash Rao. There are stories that he betrayed his master Mir jumla and these can not be believed as most of historians were Hindu haters and Muslim abettors.

There is also a story that sultan Tanasha who was much impressed by Madanna and made him the Mir jumla. As per the story, once the Sultan received a letter from Emperor Aurangzeb and when it was opened nothing was found written on the scroll and the King was much puzzled. No one could answer him. When the Sultan declared that he would reward any one who could read some thing from the letter, Madanna revealed the secret of the letter by using onion juice that produces Ammonia gas. Under the effect of Juice, black letters were found in the letter and it was read by Madanna. At request of the Sultan, Madanna wrote a letter in similar way to the emperor. The Sultan was greatly impressed and made Madanna the Mir Jumla. The story is very interesting . However it is known that Syed Muzaffar who was the Mir Jumla became arrogant and was showing insubordination to the king. In fact Syed Muzaffar played key role along with Madanna in the struggle for succession after the death of Abdullah Kutubshah the 6 th king of Golconda. As a matter of fact the eldest son in law Nizamuddin of Abdullah kutubshah made all plans to become Sultan and Syed Muzaffar soon took over control of the palace and important installations being the commander in Chief of Golconda Army (2). He ensured that Abul Hasan became the Sultan after the death of Abdullah Kutubsha. Syed Nizamuddin the eldest son in law of the late king was put to death and queens of late king were put behind bars who withered away soon. In gratitude king Abul Hasan made Syed Muzaffar as Mir Jumla. But soon he became headstrong and this forced the Sultan to ease him out of the top post and he made Madanna as Mir Jumla with title Surya Prakash Rao. Akkanna his elder brother was made as army commander (3).

Madanna proved himself as an efficient administrator and Golconda state flourished under his authority and this was very much resented by many Muslim nobles. Aurangzeb at Delhi was a Suni Muslim and he hated Shiite Kutubshahi kings and always looked for some reason to attack and annex the Deccani kingdom. Shivaji the great Maratha king also visited Hyderabad during the times of Madanna and stayed for a month as a royal guest. A treaty for mutual support and help was drafted and was signed by both the rulers and this was very much resented by the emperor. Madanna developed strong Foreign Policy and stabilized the kingdom (4).Kutubshahi kings and Adilshai kings of Bijapur realized the danger from Mughals and signed treaties of cooperation and also this was strengthened by matrimonial relations. These developments automatically angered Mughals and they always planned to attack these kingdoms. Madanna in 1677 proceeded with 20000 troops to help Bijapur sultan against Mughal invasion. However he returned after he was persuaded by Bahadurshah the Mughal commander. Madanna political adjustments and policies made Golconda a prosperous state and this was the greatest eye sore to Mughals. In Golconda too they has natural enemies who could not digest rise of Hindu nobles. It was natural in those days of Muslim rule and Hindu subjugation by the Muslims. There were pressing demands from emperor Aurangzeb to remove Akkanna and Madanna as important officials in the state and the king of Golconda was very reluctant as he knew their worth. But palace conspiracies were growing.

Madanna knew about the impending attack on Golconda and advised the Sultan to take shelter at a far off strong fort such as Konda palli or Warangal. But the sultan with his queen s and others took refuge in the Golconda fort and was soon to be trapped by the invading Mughal troops. Certain queens of past king Abdulla Kutub shah were angry that the troubles faced by the state from Mughals were the result of presence of the brothers at the helm of affairs in the kingdom. They planned for their elimination. There are also arguments that the king had hand in their elimination, But this can not be believed. Some say their elimination was with full knowledge of the Sultan. On March 16, 1686, Akkanna and Madanna were returning from the palace after seeing the king and paying respects to the goddess in Golconda fort. They had no clue that their death was waiting for them. Their guards and escorts were already bribed and bought by the conspirators. At appropriate moment the killers led by Habshi Ghulam attacked the brothers while the escort and guards looked other way. Akkanna an Madanna were dragged out of their palanquins and brutally done to death. Their bodies were dragged on the streets of Golconda and their heads were cut off and were sent to the Mughal prince who inurn sent them to the emperor who was at Ahmednagar. He was much pleased and in the presence of his troops the heads were crushed under elephant legs (5). Thus ended the glorious power of the brothers who were the only Hindu nobles who rose to such positions in a Muslim rule.( Raja kishan Prashad was the prime minister to the Nizam 6 in 20 th century at a much later date in Hyderabad state under Asifjahis rule ). Akkanna Madanna perished in very sad manner because they did not build any military support for themselves and did not have their own troops for support. They were just helpless officials depending on the security provided by the state. Their security was very easily breached by the conspirators. Once the brothers were killed the attackers fell o the homes of Hindus and killed Rustom Rao a brave commander and sister’s son of Madanna. Scores of Hindu homes were looted and burnt to ashes. Their women were carried away by attackers. Many women died jumping in wells. n hearing the news it is believed that the Sultan became very much upset and lost stability of mind for some time. Such narrations indicate that the Sultan was never a co conspirator.

Soon the Mughal forces invaded Golconda and encircled the fort. But the administration well built by the brothers took charge of the fort and could withstand for nearly a year. The defense of the fort was impregnable and the emperor was getting impatient. Famine struck the area and many troops died due to sickness and famine. Aurangzeb paid no heed to his religious advisers who were very much against the persecution of co Muslim rulers. He was very adamant. Military victory over Golconda appeared remote to Mughals. His efforts to bribe Abdul Razak Lari the Commander of Golconda forces were fruitless. But Mughals succeeded in bribing a junior commander Abdulla Pani who opened a small window in the walls of Golconda on night of 21 September 1686. Some of the selected Mughal troops entered the fort at middle of night and made their way to the main gate killing the resisting men. Soon the main gate Fateh darwaza ( Victory gate) was opened and the Mughal troops triumphatantly entered beating drums. Abdul Razak lari on hearing the commotion along with few followers rushed on horse devoid of armor and fought tooth and nail with Mughal troops. He received multiple wounds and the horse carried him away to Nageena Bagh in the fort and dropped him there before it fell dead. The unconscious hero was rescued by the Mughals and was treated by the Mughal physicians to health. The much pleased Emperor was highly impressed with Razak lari and offered him service in his court that he politely refused and preferred to live retire life. Some claim that he took service with the emperor for some time and later retired. The sultan Abul Hasan was taken captive by the Mughal commanders an was taken to the emperor with due honors. The emperor welcomed him with respect and he was sent to Daulatabad Fort in present Maharashtra where he was interned at a palace. The captive Sultan stayed in captivity and died later on. Kutub Shahi dynasty was thus extinguished. It was annexed to Mughal empire as a province. Aurangzeb died after few years of his death and victor and vanquished were buried close to each other. That is the ultimate truth. Aurangzeb destroyed south Indian kingdoms but could not take a fistful of the soil with him when he died. He died broken, worried, and with humiliation at his inability to subdue Marathas in Deccan. His policies destroyed Mughal dynasty and empire.

Akkanna and Madanna rose to the highest level by their sheer hard work and efficiency. The courtiers who were mostly Afghans, Persians and Turks could not tolerate their rise and a section of them abetted their murders. Aurangzeb could not tolerate a Hindu noble to command the position of a Prime Minister. He probably engineered their murder through the palace at Golconda. The brothers although were wise could not defend themselves became easy targets to the killers. The saddest part is that the present government has not recognized their contribution to the state and the memory of these brothers are left to winds (6) (7). There is no monument for them. Not even a street has been named after them in Hyderabad state. There are two villages Akkanna Pet and Madanna Pet around Charminar that have become part of the city. On Tank Bund scores of statues are erected. In the city on various roads and in parks numerous statues of politicians stand to day collecting dust. But there is no place for these brothers. What apathy indeed! Is it because their origins as Telugus are doubted. Or is it due to false allegations against tem by the shady and biased Muslim historians. The main allegations leveled against madanna by the pseudo Muslim historians are many. These are Corruption, Insulting army, Killing of women of harem, persecution of employees, support to Sambhaji, negligence of defense of state and betrayal of sultan etc. these are false allegations and can not stand ground. On the whole Andhrites are ungrateful to the memory of Akkanna and Madanna.

శ్రీ కౌముది ఫిబ్రవరి 2013